ads of mystery, and weave them into a substantial fame, this passed the power of public admiration.
At any rate, an applause so bewildered could heartily be heard across the Atlantic; and it is almost exasperating to find that in England, for instance, where so many feeble American reputations have been revived only to die, there are few critics who know even the name of the woman who has come nearest in our day and tongue to the genius of Elizabeth Barrett Browning, and who has made Christina Rossetti and Jean Ingelow appear but second-rate celebrities.
When some one asked Emerson a few years since whether he did not think H. H.
the best woman-poet on this continent, he answered in his meditative ay, Perhaps we might as well omit the woman, thus placing her, at least in that moment's impulse, at the head of all. He used to cut her poems from the newspapers as they appeared, to carry them about with him, and to read them aloud.
His especial favorites were the most condensed and